i opened my windows this morning
the sounds of the city droning in my ears
the beehive is collapsing
and everyone is still going about their business
as if nothing has changed
and nothing else matters
you get used, and you even get comfortable
in your misery because it happens to be 'yours'
oh, city of desperate angels, my Cleveland
when did you sell your naked soul for a few borrowed
coins of half-truths, for a few dollars more?
how will the story end without the purpose that is love
made manifest to the end of all days?
i type this poem and the leaves of autumn are already
getting ready to fall.
Comments
I've had a shameful realisation
There is at least a part of my critique on your work that is based on envy of your prolifacy. I'm lucky to find a poem a month in myself. "If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain or bitter; for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself." I'm sure you recognise The Desiderata. I apologise. In my arrogance and self assurance there are very few living poets that I envy.
A beautiful, complete poem.
Ahh, Jess....
Ahh, Jess....
Would I trade it for being young again, and having a lifetime with Barry? To do over my mistakes? To be able to paint, sing and play an instrument, design a building? I can't say for sure, except that I hope to rise above my own mediocrity and learn to love again and again...the ecstasy that is life in all its manifestations, all its experiences....
That's where I think, the wellspring is...and the 25-year absence of poetry from the days I devoted to work & family and my overwhelming desire to *being enlightened*...
Thank you for your reading and your honesty. And don't forget every day of your life is a poem waiting to be written....only you can write it..
Love,
Anna
I love you.
"and learn to love again and again...the ecstasy that is life in all its manifestations, all its experiences...."
yes.